Death Becomes Her
by MizJoely
Summary: In a world where Rome never fell, Omega Molly meets her perfect Alpha match. The only problem is, she's the lowly daughter of a Mortician and he's the patrician son of wealthy Roman parents. Will the scent of death that taints her deter him or attract him? Read and find out!
1. Flamma fumo est proxima

**Part 1: Flamma fumo est proxima** (Where there's smoke, there's fire)

 _A/N: Lots of Omegaverse smuttiness in this one, folks. Also underage (teenaged) sex. It was originally going to be a lot longer, thus the "Rome never fell" worldbuilding, but I realized I will just sit on it forever so I decided to make it a two parter instead. Both parts are already written so there will be no waiting on this one. Enjoy!_

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 **Londinium, 1886**

She's helping her father when she sees him, the Alpha she's positive is destined to be her mate. She's fifteen and he's maybe a few years older but what difference does it make when her blood burns for him? She's had one Heat and she can tell she's about to have her second one, right here, right now, and all because of _him_.

He scents her presence before he sees her; she watches avidly as his nose quivers and his eyes dart about the cluttered room, seeking her out in the semi-darkness. They are surrounded by the trappings of death, here in the basement of her father's mortuary. Coffins and death-masks, shelves of neatly folded winding sheets and trays of copper rounds meant to cover the eyes of the dead lie all around them. Blank, until her father etches the chosen designs into the metal. It's a skill he's been teaching her, one at which she shows some small talent and of which she's extremely proud.

That's why _he's_ here, he and his older brother, members of the prestigious Holmes family. She knows his name is William and she knows he's meant to be hers and she's meant to be his, no matter the differences in their classes. Those who handle the dead are barely a step above slaves in the eyes of the nobility; distasteful but necessary.

She doesn't care. All she cares about is that her Alpha has stayed behind, lingering because of her, or so she hopes, while his brother and her father have moved to the offices upstairs to arrange the details for the burial. Not of a family member, but a trusted retainer, a slave who'd died in service and whose ghost must be appeased by a proper funeral even if his station in life is even more lowly than her own.

Since presenting as an Omega she's been warned over and over that a marriage will be difficult to arrange, not only because of her father's humble position but because her scent has been tainted by spending so much time by his side in the mortuary. Her parents never would have allowed it had they believed it possible for her to grow into anything but a Beta like themselves and their parents before them.

Her Alpha is still testing the air as he searches for her. "I know you're here," he growls, his voice deep and lovely and warm, as rich as the scent wafting her way and making her mouth water. She shivers when she hears it, but remains silent. If he truly is her mate, he'll find her; it's all instinct driving her now. She must hide, and he must find her on his own, prove his suitability and demonstrate his skill at the hunt.

He must want _her_ as badly as _she_ wants _him_.

She slips backwards, long familiarity with the quirks of the oddly shaped basement easing her passage between an Egyptian-styled sarcophagus leaning against the wall on one side and several bulky rolls of fabric – meant to be used as altar covers – leaning against the other. The door between is narrow, and leads away from the public areas of the mortuary, into a series of narrow passageways and small rooms before eventually emptying out into the room where the dead are actually prepared.

The four metal slabs used to hold bodies during the purification rituals and other preparations – including post-mortems when the local constabulary need to discover or confirm cause of death – are freshly scrubbed and covered by simple white cotton sheets to symbolize their cleanliness. She would know this even without the evidence of her senses because she's the one tasked to tidy up after the bodies have been removed. She climbs up onto the table furthest from the door, pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around her bent legs, and waits.

Far sooner than expected she catches his scent, and a thrill of excitement/fear shivers through her body. Her own scent seems overwhelming to her nostrils and she wonders if he can smell her over the lingering whiff of decomposition beneath the oils and chemicals of her father's trade.

She's sweating beneath her loose tunic and skirt and has an unpleasant itch between her legs; her underclothes are wet from a combination of sweat and arousal, and all she wants is for him not to reject her. His reaction when he comes close enough to separate her personal scent from the lingering odors of the mortuary - _that_ will give her her answer: either he'll be repulsed by the fact that it's been tainted by the death that surrounds her, or he won't.

She very much hopes he won't.

"Found you." She jumps a bit at the sound of his voice so close to her ear. How did she not hear him slipping through the darkened doorway, how did he move so silently she didn't hear his footfalls on the cold tile floor, or not notice his scent growing stronger? In the end it doesn't matter: he's here, standing behind her, sniffing at her neck as she tilts her head to allow him access, and he's not leaving. No, if anything his own scent - musky, heady, pure Alpha - is thickening, filling her lungs and making her tremble with want and need for things she's never had before but knows now she doesn't want to live without.

"Your scent," he says in a low voice, and she shivers, partially from the rising tide of her Heat and partially from fear that he's about to reject her after all. His hands land on her shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into her flesh as he continues speaking. "It's incredible. But I imagine it's not something every Alpha can appreciate."

"You're the first one who hasn't been disgusted," she whispers, dropping her head and closing her eyes in a mixture of shame and relief.

"You were allowed to assist your father because they thought you were a Beta, at least until you had your first Heat...six months ago?"

"Four," she replies, still whispering.

"And yet here you are, going into Heat again, two months early." His breath tickles her ear; he's bent his head down again and is nuzzling at her neck. His hands slide down her arms, capturing her wrists, and she feels the sharp nip of his teeth as her body flushes fever-hot, spreading from her abdomen outward until her scalp and the very soles of her feet feel as though they're on fire. Sweat prickles at her hairline and between her breasts, sliding down her spine and pooling in her joints.

"My brother and your father will be at least an hour finalizing the details of the funeral." His chest is pressed against her back now, and one hand has moved from her wrist to her body, fingers splayed across her abdomen. He presses against her thighs with the other hand and she obediently lowers her legs so that they're lying flat against the cool surface of the narrow table. "Your Heat will last at least three days, possibly longer. So where can we go? I don't know Londinium as well as I'd like to; we've just arrived from Rome and our family manor is in Somerset. I can't bring you back to the townhouse; Mycroft wouldn't approve, he'd try to find some way to keep us apart."

"My uncle's moved to the country to keep bees," Molly says, a low moan escaping her lips as her Alpha slips his fingers under the edge of her bunched-up skirts, gliding them teasingly up her thighs and toward the part of her body that aches the most for his touch. "H-his house is empty, no new tenants until the next full moon." It's considered bad luck to move into a new home before then, but their stay will be temporary, so it hardly counts. At least, she prays the Gods see it that way.

"Tell me your name." It's not a request; it's an arrogant demand, exactly what she'd expect from an Alpha as strong as she can tell he is.

"Molly," she breathes, tilting her head submissively to the side, silently begging for the scrape of his teeth on her throat again. He obliges her, nuzzling at the tender flesh below her ear, the hot swipe of his tongue bringing another soft moan from her throat. He nips at her, sucking hard, working a red mark into her skin that she's thrilled to bear, knowing it as the harbinger of something more permanent.

No, she reminds herself as William's fingers dance closer and closer to her aching cunt. She doesn't 'know' any such thing. In spite of the strong pull between them, he might choose to deny the Bond, to simpy mate with her and then slip away, never to be seen again even if he leaves her with child. No matter what the Queen had decreed, there are unacknowledged children of such liaisons all over Londinium. And there is the difference in their class; his family will object if he chooses to Bond with the lowly daughter of a mortician...there is so much she needs to keep in mind, even as the fever of her rising Heat threatens to overwhelm all reason.

"Molly," he says, and a shiver goes over her at the sound of her name on his lips, a thrill that sets off sparks in her core and raises the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck and erases all worries about the future, at least for now. "Molly," he says again, his voice a deep growl as he suddenly thrusts his hand between her legs, seeking out the opening in her modest, knee-length drawers. Even though it's only there to make it easier for her to use the commode, she realizes how perfectly suited the split in the cotton fabric is for William's long fingers to stroke against the gathering wetness between her legs. She arches against his touch, keening high and desperately as she reaches back to touch whatever parts of him she can reach.

"No," he snarls, snagging both hands by the wrists and holding them against her chest with one of his own. His hands are large and easily wrap around her slender wrists. "Not here. Not until we're at your uncle's house." His clever fingers are still moving, sliding up the wet seam of her sex, delving inside, working her into a writhing, sopping mess.

She nods to show she understands, even though her hands are aching to touch him, to feel the warmth of his manhood, to explore the protrusions at its base that will swell and form his Knot when they mate. She's never seen them on a living man, only stolen glimpses of them on the dead that her father prepares. He would be quite cross if he were to find out about her secret investigations, not only to answer her curiosity about Alpha anatomy but about how people are put together in general.

Of course, were he to walk in on them right now, he'd be more than cross: he'd be absolutely furious, and William's brother as well. But it's hard to focus on such things when William's fingers are pressed inside her and all she wants to do is throw her head back and howl her pleasure to the skies.

She does spare the energy to wonder if William would be repulsed by her interest in anatomy, if he's a typical arrogant Alpha male. She's seen more of them than she count in her short life, especially members of the upper classes who parade by, their Omega mates silent and submissive by their sides. She's often wondered if that's how they behave in private as well, or if they're more like her friend Meena's parents, who consider themselves equals even if the law doesn't recognize that profound truth in any way.

William is nobly born, and from Mater Roma. Will he value her intelligence or force her to hide it as she has done throughout her young life? There's no way to tell without asking, and right now isn't even close to being the right time to broach it. Not when he's bringing her so close to physical bliss she can practically taste it on the air. She darts her tongue out at the thought and hears him give a little groan. She feels him shudder and then suddenly he pulls her body tight to his. It takes her a moment to realize that the hot bulge pressed so snuggly against her bum is his prick. As soon as she does her body clenches around the tips of his fingers and she gives a soft, surprised cry at the pleasure that washes through her, biting down hard on her cheeks to keep louder noises inside.

"Liked that, did you?" William asks, sounding pleased with himself. But his voice is a tad rougher than it was before, and she can smell how his own arousal has spiked. All she can do is nod, still trembling in the aftermath of her first...oh, how she wishes she knew the proper word for it! She opens her mouth, daring to ask him, but he somehow anticipates her question. " _Orgasmus_ ," he breathes against her ear, licking her as soon as the word leaves his mouth. "Although the Gauls call it orgasme, or _la petite mort_ , which means…"

"The 'little death'," Molly translates, and she can certainly understand that interpretation.

"Clever _and_ well educated," William says, sounding approving. Or is that just wishful thinking? Molly can't tell; she's too busy shuddering and shaking as her body recovers. "I can't wait to have you, Molly." He pulls his hands away and she whines at the lack of contact, half-turning to reach for him. He takes her hand and intertwines their fingers, his still soaked and sticky with her feminine juices. "Let's go. We'll stop at a market for food and drink on the way, I presume there is one?"

She nods, too far gone to argue with him about anything. All she can feel is the ache between her legs, the fire in her blood inflaming her senses and stealing her ability to think. Less than five minutes later they're gone, slipped out the back while Molly leads him to the market center nearest her uncle's closed-up home. William never lets go of her, showing his teeth to the few Alphas they encounter who sniff eagerly at her and make smacking noises with their lips. A few times she thinks it might actually come to blows, but he's clearly superior to those who challenge him, and her heart sings in triumph. She's chosen well, and their child - dare she hope 'children'? - will be magnificent.


	2. Ubi concordia, ibi victoria

**Part 2: Ubi concordia, ibi Victoria (Where there is unity, there is victory)**

In total it takes them a little over a half-hour to make their purchases and reach her uncle's home, slipping inside through the kitchen mews. William does something to the locks when she belatedly remembers she has no key, then they're inside with the door closed behind them. He latches it securely, setting the little bundle of supplies he's purchased on the wood work table beneath the window before pressing her against the door and kissing her hungrily.

She kisses him back with equal fervor, clumsily at first, but quickly finding the proper way to move her lips and tongue. The tongue part startles her for a second; it's vulgar, _common_ , but she likes it very much and happily follows his lead. The truth of the matter is that, right now in this moment, she would allow him to do anything he wanted to her. If he demanded she raise her skirts and let him rut against her while they remained standing, like any common street whore, she'd gladly submit.

Instead, he pulls away, breathing heavily, as is she, and stares at her as if he were starving and she were the last morsel of food on the dinner table. "Upstairs," he growls, groping for their supplies. Food only, no need for drink as her uncle's house has running water. She remembers telling him that, explaining that it was one of the things that makes her uncle's house such a desirable property in spite of the neighborhood. Even if he didn't seem to care about her rambling words - and she did tend to ramble when nervous or excited, and today she was both - at least he'd listened to her.

She leads him up the stairs to the smallest of the three bedrooms, the one meant for guests. He nods approvingly at the sight of the sheet-draped bed and dresser that make up its sole furnishings, then turns to give her an appraising look. She flushes even redder as his eyes travel over her from head to toe, and it's all she can do to hold back from flinging herself into his arms.

He nods at her feet. "Your shoes," he says hoarsely. "Take them off. And your clothes." He clears his throat, nods at her again. "We need to take off our clothes."

He suits words to actions, bending down to unlace his boots, tilting his head to watch as she does the same. When they're both in their stocking feet, he begins to undress himself, stripping off his jacket and waistcoat, yanking at his tie and nimbly undoing the buttons of his shirt.

She can't stop watching him even as her fingers move to tug her tunic over her head, to loosen the ties of her skirt and allow it to fall around her ankles along with her petticoats until she's wearing nothing but her demi-corset, drawers and knee-high stockings. He shrugs out of his shirt, and the sight of his bare chest spurs her into action. She reaches around to tug at the laces to her demi-corset, fumbling in her haste.

"Let me," he says, and she turns, twisting her neck painfully in order to keep her eyes on him. "Turn around," he orders, and she does, whining a bit in disappointment.

The disappointment is swiftly replaced by a shivering sort of pleasure as he begins undoing the laces, dipping his head low in order to place his lips on her neck. "Take down your hair," he commands as she feels the demi-corset loosen, and she reaches up to pull the pins from her hair, dropping them haphazardly to the floor and allowing the coils of brown hair to unravel and fall across her naked shoulders.

His kisses have grown more fevered as he continues to wrestle with her laces; she hears him snarl in frustration before finally getting them loose enough to remove the offending garment. Once it slides down her chest she hurries to slip it over her hips, kicking it away as soon as it drops to her feet. Her undergarments are next, and suddenly she's completely naked with his hands on her breasts and his hard, hard prick again pressed tightly against the curve of her bum. This time he allows her to reach around and rub her hands over the hot bulge, and makes no objection when she eventually turns so they're face to face.

"You're perfect," he says, and there's a tone of wonder in his voice that sends another shiver down her spine, raises goosebumps on her flesh that have little to do with lust. No one's ever spoken to her like this, looked at her the way he is now, as if he could devour her whole. His eyes are dark with desire, and when he moistens his lips with his tongue and runs his hands down her back to cup her bum, she gives into her need to be closer, and draws his head down for another kiss.

She's nearly dizzy with her Heat now, and in her clumsiness her teeth catch his lower lip. Before she can stop herself she bites down hard enough to draw blood. The taste and scent of it seem to throw him into a frenzy, if not a full Alpha Rut; he kisses her back, thrusting his tongue into her mouth in that vulgar manner but oh, she likes it, she likes it very much. When the backs of her knees hit the bed she realizes he's maneuvered them there, and she clambers onto the sheet-covered mattress with a great deal of eagerness.

She watches breathlessly as he undoes his trousers, kicking them off along with anything he's wearing beneath them, then quickly pulls off his socks and crawls onto the bed next to her. She inches her way back toward the headboard, her eyes never leaving his, rejoicing at the hunger of his gaze. He lunges forward and covers her body with his, his mouth on hers, sucking hard at her lower lip, nipping at it until she opens and allows his tongue to sweep inside again. She tastes blood and that heady, indefinable Alpha taste she knows is uniquely his, and instinct causes her to wrap her legs around his body and hold tight to his shoulders.

"You're mine," he growls as he pulls back to stare down at her, eyes wild and hair tangled from where her fingers have tugged at it. "Say it, Molly. Say you're my Omega."

"I'm yours," she replies breathlessly. "I'm your Omega, William. Always, always."

"Sherlock," he corrects, a purely Alpha growl in his voice that causes the hairs on her arms to stand on end and her cunt to clench. "Call me Sherlock. Only my parents call me William."

"Sherlock," she repeats obediently, the syllables feeling oddly at home on her lips, her tongue, even though she's never heard it before.

William - Sherlock - shows his approval by falling upon her with snarl, his mouth everywhere: her lips, her throat, her ears, her collarbone, and ultimately her breasts. His mouth is perfect, his lips and tongue teasing her nipples into a beautifully aching hardness. Her hands find his hair again, that soft, lovely dark mass of curls, and she croons her approval of his every move. He's pressed one leg between hers; his prick is thick and heavy against her thigh, and all she can think about is having him inside her, taking his Knot and his seed and filling the ache in her womb.

Sherlock, it would seem, shares her desires wholeheartedly; he takes himself in hand, lowering his body over hers and pressing the head of his prick against her opening.

She's been taught that women were made to receive men, and Omegas are especially made to receive Alphas; now she finally understands what that means. Sherlock is filling her, stretching her; there's a slight burn but no pain. If anything, she feels better than she ever has in her life; the fire in her veins is soothed by their joining, and the scent of him saturates the air, filling her nostrils and causing her to dig her fingernails into his shoulders. She's drawing blood again; the sharp, metallic tang mixes with his own uniquely musky Alpha scent, and she growls and moves her hips impatiently. She's not quite sure what she wants, but it's more than him just being inside her.

Her movement spurs his own; suddenly he's snapping his hips, leaning down to press a sloppy kiss to her lips. He's resting on his elbows but she wants - _needs_ \- him to be closer, and tugs at him, scratching his shoulders when he doesn't move quickly enough for her. He lowers himself so that they're touching along the entire lengths of their bodies, and it still isn't enough. Not until she wraps her legs around his lean flanks, joining them at the ankles behind his back, is she finally satisfied.

He seems to enjoy the new angle as well; he growls and nips at her throat, then sucks hard at the spot above her racing pulse. Sweat is pouring freely from her body and his, and the sounds of their joining are an obscene melody to rival any music-hall performance she's ever heard.

As they move together Molly feels a sense of completion, as if she's been waiting for this moment her entire life, as if this is what she was born to do. Their families and society and the world in general may frown on their joining, but it brings Molly nothing but a sense of completion, the emotion exquisitely matched by the physical sensation as she feels Sherlock's Knot forming. "You're mine," he growls again, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back, exposing her throat.

She arches her back and feels hot tears spring to her eyes as he bites down, sharp teeth worrying at the flesh above her pulse point. When he bites down, punching his Knot into her at the same time, another _orgasmus_ overwhelms her. She cries out in ecstasy as he fills her, his hot seed pouring into her womb, his prick pulsing and throbbing deep within her, his soothing purr filling her ears. She feels the blood on her throat, sees it staining his lips and chin and pulls him down for a wild, desperate kiss.

They're Bonded now; no matter what their families think about it - especially his - they're mates.

Afterwards, with the haze of Heat temporarily at bay, they lay on their sides, legs tangled, arms wrapped around one another, Sherlock's Knot tying them together as they gaze at one another. "We're mates," she whispers, reaching up to stroke a finger along the line of his jaw.

He nods, his green-blue eyes staring at her with something like awe. "We are," he agrees, and she hears the same awe in his voice. "I never really believed the stories about finding your perfect Omega, thought it was just biology overriding reason...but I was wrong." He smiles softly. "You're intelligent and you want to do more with your life than just be a wife and mother and that's fine, that's perfect. I can bring you medical books to study, get my tutors to teach you as well, make you our House physician and -" He breaks off with a sudden snort of laughter, and Molly cocks her head inquisitively.

He raises one hand and waves it weakly before pulling her close for another toe-curling kiss. As he does so a secondary climax claims then both, leaving them panting and mindless for a long, blissful minute. When it passes, Sherlock chuckles and continues speaking as if they hadn't been interrupted by their bodies shared need. "My brother's going to completely lose his mind, but my parents will be thrilled. They've been dying for one of us to find a mate and give them grandchildren."

Molly gnaws at her lower lip at the mention of his parents. "What's wrong?" he demands, brow creasing in a frown as his eyes rove intently over her face. He wraps his arms back around her, holding her close. "You needn't worry about my family, even Mycroft," he assures her. "He'll be too busy running the Britannic Senate from behind the scenes to care about me for a change. And my parents will love you."

Every word pierces Molly to the core. She knows Sherlock must be able to sense it through their newly formed Bond, just as she senses his growing concern. She lowers her head, the scent of her shame thick and cloying in her nostrils. His brother is a Senator, his parents wealthy Romans, and she… "They won't," she whispers. "The daughter of a Mortician? Who smells of death? They'll hate me, send me away, only let us be together during my Heats, take our children away from me…"

He eases her growing hysteria by tilting her heat up and kissing her soundly. "No. Even if my parents were like that - and they're not - they would never do that to my Bonded mate. Ever. I'd run away with you first."

She gazes at him with cautious hope. His words, his emotions, his very scent reek of raw honesty. "Truly? You'd give up your life of privilege just for me?"

He kisses her again, softly, slowly, until the tension in her body finally eases. "You're my mate, Molly. I'd pretty much do anything for you - and you know what? I don't hate that idea the way I always thought I would. Being Bonded doesn't limit you, doesn't diminish you…"

"It makes you whole," Molly finishes, kissing him again and feeling a cautious hope for the future. No matter what obstacles they face, at least she knows they'll face them together.

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 _A/N: Thus endeth this sagalet. Many thanks to allthebellsinvenice for helping me with Victorian underclothes and betaing. Just as many thanks to broomclosetkink for her betaing and cheerleading, and thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. Even if it's just "I liked it", all comments make writers happy._


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